Spilled Secrets
by Pokemon67
Summary: Summary: Chuck's father doesn't follow the guidebook and tells to much to some strangers, putting Ned in danger. Chuck and Emerson go to save him, but the Pie Maker has ways of protecting himself. However, he has no way of helping himself in the aftermath of it all...


**Me: Recently watched** _ **Pushing Daisies.**_ **And, as like the stages of grief, one must go through stages of Fandom. I am in the fan fiction stage. But unlike the stages of grief, there is no acceptance. Just more fandom.**

 **This is a** _ **slight**_ **crossover with** _ **Ms. Peregrines Home for Peculiar Children.**_ **If you haven't read it, no worries— well, yes worry because you haven't been introduced to the wonderful sarcasm of those children— but in terms of this story no worries because it's easily explained. If you have read the series than I hope you will appreciate the effort.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I own** _ **nothing-**_ **though pretty sure** _ **Pushing Daises**_ **owns me because I freaking love it.**

~ _Pokemon67 is sorry for any grammatical errors. She tried, and we all know it's the thought that counts.~_

Ned's worst fear had been realized.

He had been discovered. Found out. People knew what he could do. He wasn't a fool: he had learned a long time ago that there were others like him. _Peculiars_ they were called. And he knew that that there were monsters that hunted people with powers like his. And some of those monsters were normal people who either a) wanted to rid the world of these supernatural beings or b) wanted to experiment on them and find out what makes them tick.

Unfortunately, Ned had been discovered by the latter.

The facts leading up to his kidnaping were these:

Charles Charles had driven away from his daughter and her freak of a boyfriend and found himself at a bar he had frequented when he was alive. Of course, that being over 20 years ago, the place had changed. Everything from the name to the type of alcohol they served was different. But beer was beer and Charles Charles didn't care at that moment.

Actually, that was a lie. He did care. He cared very much about the life he had missed. Those 20 years forever lost to him because of some idiot boy who played god. He cared about his daughter, and feared losing her. All it would take is for that awkward freak to stumble and bump into her. Or maybe one day he would decide he didn't want her anymore and simple touch her and be rid of her. There was no telling.

The more Charles Charles thought about the Pie Maker, the angrier he got. And the angrier he got, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more forthcoming he became.

Two gentleman noticed the distressed, injured man. They came over and engaged in conversations as one does in a bar with fellow drunks. Usually in bars fellow drunks will share their problems with others and drink to forget. Those problems ranging from love troubles to unemployment. But Charles Charles' troubles weren't those. No, his problems were a tall man who hides his true self behind the facade of a baker.

Now, if anyone ordinary heard Charles Charles ramblings, they wouldn't pay any attention and chuckle about how much he had drank. But the men who came over to talk to him weren't ordinary. They were _wrights_ , which is to say, dealing with freaks like Ned were their specialty.

They assured Charles Charles, in so many words, mind you, that they would take care of the problem if he would simply tell them where this monstrosity was hiding out. The 20 years without a drink very drunk man happily obliged.

And that was how Ned ended up in a basement, tied to a chair. He had been turned in by his girlfriend's father. What luck.

….

''You did _what_ now?''

''I told.'' Charles Charles had the decency to look ashamed as Emerson Cod, private investigator, questioned him. It had been over 24 hours since his confession in the bar. When he woke up in his motel room earlier, the encounter had been the farthest thing from his mind. The foremost thing being the intense hangover he was suffering from. But upon hearing from some passerby, who must of been a frequenter or the Pie Hole, say how the owner was nowhere to be found, and his friend the P.I. was working hard on a case _alone,_ he remembered and came forward with his tale.

''Who were these people?'' Emerson Cod demanded, glaring down at the man who sat at the counter on a stool.

''I don't know,'' Charles Charles admitted. Being former army, his lack of knowledge and how he handled the situation was causing him to shrink in embarrassment. ''But by the way they talked, they knew what they were about. They weren't surprised by Pie Boy's _talent._ It sounded like they were looking for it.''

''Names?''

''Don't know.'' He sighed as Emerson cursed. ''I'm sorry.''

Chuck couldn't hold back a laugh at that. ''You're _sorry_?'' she scoffed. All through out her father's confession, she had bitten her tongue and let Emerson handle it. But she couldn't hold back anymore.

''Button-''

''No! Do you not see the irony in all this? You were so afraid of _Ned_ hurting _you_ and it turned out _you_ hurt _him_. You exposed his secret. And not to some regular person, but someone who apparently is _looking_ for him. That can't mean anything good. I just-'' Words escaped her. Nothing could describe how she felt at that moment. ''Just go. And don't talk to anymore people.''

''Charlotte, please-''

Chuck didn't even bother looking at him, but marched away into the kitchen.

She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She heard Emerson angrily enforcing her order. Her head was spinning. _Oh, Ned…_

This was her fault. She had handled everything so wrong. She wasn't sure what she should've done differently. Not bring her father back? Have listened to Ned when he said not to open the grave? She didn't know. All she knew was that Ned had always feared being found out and he had given her so much and this was how she repaid him: being the reason he was God knew where with some people doing God knew what to him. She was a horrible girlfriend.

Chuck turned over in her head the hours leading up to Ned's disappearance. They were quiet after her father drove away. They ate dinner. Played a game. He had been willing to do whatever she wanted so as to help her feeling of despair at her father leaving her. They stayed up late and while she was preparing for bed he said he had to prepare fruit for the morning baking. She went to bed and when she woke up this morning he wasn't there. Figuring he had gotten up early like usual, she went down to the Pie Hole and found Olive demanding to know why she was the only one with a work ethic. When Chuck didn't know where Ned was, both assumed he had had to run some errand and went about their morning normally. When afternoon rolled around they reasoned Emerson must've corralled him into a case. When Emerson came in that evening for some pie and answered both of the anxious women's demands that he had not seen Ned all day, they began to worry. And then her father came in…

Emerson entered the kitchen. ''Alright,'' he began. ''So, we know that he's most defiantly been taken. What we don't know is where.''

''Or why,'' Chuck sighed, opening her eyes again to watch as Emerson paced.

''Yes we do,'' Emerson countered. ''According to your dead daddy, these guys hunt people like him.''

''So there are others?'' Chuck marveled at the thought. ''Other people with abilities like Ned?''

Emerson shrugged. ''I suppose it's foolish to think he'd be the only magic man in the world.''

Chuck shook her head. Other people like Ned. With powers like him. Or at least similar. Maybe not raising the dead, but something else impossible like it. ''Okay,'' she began slowly. ''Let's say these guys are professionals. You'd have to be careful, wouldn't you? I mean, some drunk in a bar saying he was raised from the dead isn't exactly a reliable source.''

''True.'' Emerson drummed his fingers on the table. ''But the kidnapping must've took place pretty quickly after the conversation, which means they acted quick. What if they already knew he existed?''

''Already knew about a guy who could raise the dead?'' It would make sense, why they took her father's words so seriously. ''But that would mean they started _out_ looking for Ned.''

''And if they were in the bar, they probably are staying in, or near, the motel. Which means they are from out of town.''

''They'd be staking out.''

''Exactly. So, if I were trying to stake out a guy who plays with corpses, where would I set up base?''

Chuck straightened up with a thought. ''The cemetery.''

…

Ned was tired. And hungry. His hands had gone numb from being tied behind his back. He had a cut across his face from when one of his captors got impatient. He wanted to go home.

One of the men were out of sight, keep watch Ned supposed. The other was walking in a circle around him. He kept twirling the knife he held in his hand, a not so subtle warning. ''So, tell me about yourself, Deadly Nedly.''

The familiar nickname did not go unnoticed. ''Your girl's father was pretty forthcoming in his description of you. Still nothing to say? Yeah, his portrayal of you did kind of give me the impression you were a bit slow.'' He stopped walking and leaned close to Ned's face. ''You touch a dead person, they live. Touch them again, they die. But if you keep them alive for more than a minute, someone else has to die in their place. Strange.'' He got up again. ''A minute. One measly minute isn't a lot of time. Wonder why it's only a minute.''

He stroked the knife against a rock, sharping it. It made a horrible sound that made Ned's already strained nerves worse. ''It takes two to talk, freak,'' the man said. He came closer. ''Well, I have ways of getting people to loosen up, if you get my meaning…''

…

''Where am I going exactly?''

''Dwight Dixon's grave.'' Chuck strained to see the dark road, as if looking at where they were would get them to their desired destination faster. ''Or, what was his grave, which was actually my dad'd grave—''

''Okay, but why?''

''My dad and I were all over the news when those Swedish Freaks were investigating Dwight Dixon. That's probably what prompted the guys who took Ned to come here.'' _Your fault,_ a little voice in her head said.

''You think they have some sort of set up in the cometary?'' Emerson asked.

''There are a lot of crypts,'' Chuck defended her assumption. ''Probably some tunnels or something. It's the only idea we have.''

Emerson nodded solemnly and they drove in silence. As they drew closer and closer, Chuck mentally thinking about all the different crypts and where to start, Emerson's jaw dropped. ''Oh my God.''

Chuck's reaction was slower, for it took her a moment longer to process exactly what she was looking at. ''Are those…?''

Emerson and her exchanged a look. ''Ghosts.''

….

Ned couldn't hold on.

The man made liberal use of his knife. He never went to deep. A nick on his neck, his arm, across his stomach. But now instead of cutting him, he just grabbed where he'd previously cut and use his fingers to make the cut deeper. It was both painful and gross.

It was the the feeling of being trapped that was causing Ned the most discomfort however. Not being able to move, not being able to get away from the constant talking of this man. Being touched and hurt by him. Every part of Ned's body was shaking with a desire to _move_. To get away.

''— _Of course, freaks like you…''_

To not listen to the name calling.

''— _called you a monster…''_

To not be reminded what other's thought of him.

''— _Said you were playing god…''_

To not be _accused…_

''It's very important.''

The man, Turner, he had called himself earlier, was surprised. The one sided conversation had been going on for quite a long time, and he had practically expected Ned to never speak. ''What?''

''You said its not important. One minute,'' Ned clarified. ''One minute is a very important amount of time.''

Turner cocked his head, amused. He was getting information. ''Really, now?''

Ned nodded, his neck tight. ''People love saying _it takes time._ But what is time? When is it enough? What's the difference between half and hour and twenty-nine minutes? It's that one minute. One minute you could be breathing and the next drop dead. You could be working at a job you've been in for years and quit in a minute by simple saying 'I quit.' Our lives are made up of minutes. Things can be the same for seconds, but in minutes they can change. A minute, one, singular minute, everything can change. It's an important amount of time.''

Turner did not look impressed by the babble. He was even less impressed when Ned began laughing. ''What's so funny.''

Ned continued his laughter. ''Digby was run over in a minute. My mother died in a minute. Chuck's father died in a minute. My father said goodbye in a minute. Emerson discovered my secret in a minute. You grabbed me in a minute. I have been counting how long I've been alive down to the minutes for as long as I can remember.'' Ned tried to control his laughter, but his body was stressed and tired. He was entering some sort of euphoria to deal with it. The whole situation was _hysterical_. ''You want to know something? Something I've never told anyone about my power?''

Turner was clearly put off by the insanity of the formerly silent man. But keeping in mind his mission, he nodded. ''What?''

Ned leaned forward in his chair and pretended to whisper. ''You got it all wrong.'' He leaned back and, with a grin on his face, continued to explain. ''See, when I bring back dead person, I don't bring them back exactly. I _lend_ a portion of my life to them for a minute. But after that minute, it goes back to me, no matter what. Touching or no. If I _don't_ touch them, then that life force has to come from someone else- whatever is nearest in the vicinity. But their souls? The things that make those people _those people_? Those come from somewhere else. Some believe that they hunt the world as spirits. Tell me, Turner; do you believe in ghosts?''

''No. Now what do you mean I have it all wrong?''

''Well,'' Ned continued, as if not having heard Turner. ''Then I guess you can just chalk this up to a bad dream.''

Turner raised an eyebrow, but quickly his expression changed to shock as two grey figures appeared behind Ned.

The LoungBrough School for Boys was an old establishment, and as all good ghost stories teach, old establishments have spirits haunting them. Ned didn't have many friends at the school, and after Eugene witnessed his fall into the leaves, he was mostly alone. But the ghosts liked him. When it got unbearable being alone, they would come and cheer him up. Being friends with ghosts wasn't an easy thing, but nothing in Ned's life was. After leaving the school, Ned had done his best to stay away from all things related to his powers, ghosts included. He hadn't called on spirits in years. But like when he was a boy, he needed help. So like then, spirits rose and aided him.

A woman in grey cut the ropes tying Ned to his chair and Ned stood up, his aching muscles grateful. ''Now, what was your question?'' Ned cocked his head to the side in feigned ignorance. Turner was barely listening to him, but watching as more spirits rose from the ground to aid the man who raised the dead.

''W-what?''

''You asked 'what do I have all wrong'?'' Ned recalled. A smile spread across his face. A giddy one. He leaned forward toward Turner as he confessed, '' _I don't have to actually touch the dead to raise them.''_

Terror rose on Turner's face as Ned's words sunk in. ''Kent! Run!"' He called to his partner. But Ned wasn't concerned if the message reached him or not. He was busy.

It had been ages since he did this— longer since raising ghosts. But like riding a bike, a sixth sense inside of him knew exactly what to do. ''We are under a cemetery, you mentioned, correct?'' Perfect. A whole lot of old dead who would be happy for an activity.

Ned turned to the wall where he sensed the graves. He flexed his hands open and closed. _Wake up. Come to me._

Dirt fell from the ceiling. Turner could only watch as the dead broke out of their coffins to answer the call. It wasn't long before along with at least ten ghosts twice as many physical bodies were surrounding Ned.

Ned was standing straight up. He was not hunched over or slumped in anyway. His hands, clasped behind his back in his usual manner, were not clasped in fear of what he could do, but in security. They were his weapons. ''I have raised you,'' he confessed to the confused group of long dead. ''Serve me.'' He looked over his shoulder at Turner. ''Kill him.''

Just as he predicted, the bored corpses were happy to oblige.

…

Chuck and Emerson didn't want to get out of the car. The cemetery was swarming with grey figures, vague outlines of people. If the windshield were a TV screen, the figures would be ghosts. But the windshield wasn't a TV screen, it was a windshield. And yet…

''Look.'' Emerson pointed grimly to a handful of graves. The dirt was overturned.

That alone was enough to make Chuck hop out of the car. How Ned had managed to dig up all those by himself, she wasn't sure. Unless the men who took him had as a way to test him. Either way, it was enough proof that they'd find something here that would lead them to Ned.

Emerson was slower getting out of the car. ''Do not be stupid,'' he growled.

''They can't actually be ghosts, right?'' Chuck asked aloud. She watched as some paced around the gravestones, while others moved toward a crypt. ''Do you think Ned can—''

''Where are they going?'' Emerson asked, directing their attention to the ghosts walking toward the crypt. Cautiously, they ran after the ghosts.

The ghosts didn't become hostile when they saw the two alive people. When Emerson accidentally walked through one of them, the most he got was a glare. ''I guess we don't have to worry about them causing trouble,'' he commented, hesitant to use the term _ghost_.

Chuck nodded as they approached the crypt. She gasped when she saw what lay near the door.

A man lay dead by the entrance. His head bashed in.

''You think…'' she trailed off. No doubt this was one of the kidnappers. But had Ned killed him?

''Ned!'' Emerson shouted, leading the way into the crypt.

They saw the open door and ran down the steps into the basement. The scene that laid before them took a moment to process.

Ghosts hung back against the wall, watching with glee the spectacle in front of them. Dirt covered people in fine clothes were all in a circle, from the center of which pitiful screams were coming from. No doubt these were the people who belonged in the graves up on the surface. and in the back of all this, impossible to miss because of his hight, was Ned. Covered in dirt with a cut across his face and a smile to match. He was watching with as much glee as the ghosts.

Chuck didn't recognize him. That wasn't Ned. Not that grin, not that pleasure of watching a man die. And the dead? It had to be close to a minute. '' _Ned!''_

He hadn't been expecting her voice. His face went from joy to shock in a second. He snapped out of whatever frame of mind he had been in and understood. He had to stop. With a flick of his fingers, it all went away. The dead dropped on the ground, the ghosts vanished. All that was left was the dead man on the floor and Ned standing a few paces back. He stumbled.

Chuck began running towards him. ''No!'' Ned shouted. ''Go!'' Chuck didn't understand why until the dirt behind Ned began tumbling down.

The dead hadn't just dug out of their graves. They tried, and then decided to take the direct route by digging into the basement. The dirt was going to collapse and fill the underground room.

Emerson and Chuck turned to run, Ned right behind them. They didn't stop until they made it to the car. ''Hey, where do you think you're going?''

Emerson was calling after Ned as he marched passed the car and began disappearing into the woods. ''Ned!'' Chuck called.

''I'll see you at home.''

The reply was barely audible as the Pie Maker was swallowed up by the dark of night and thick forrest.

Emerson and Chuck stared in disbelief at the place Ned had been standing. ''I have to go after him,'' Chuck said, closing her car door and preparing to do so.

''Don't.'' Chuck turned her stare of disbelief on Emerson. ''Let's go. He said he'll meet you there. He needs time alone.''

''But—'' Chuck was cut off as Emerson got in the car. Sighing in frustration, anger, and sadness, Chuck numbly complied.

…

After wading through a wet forest and hitching a bus, Ned managed to make it back to the apartment before Chuck. He locked himself in the bathroom, sitting on the floor and leaning against the door.

He killed two men. He raised the dead without touching them and summoned ghosts. Three things he had promised himself he would never do again, and he had done all three in one night. In less than a minute. Oh yes, a minute is a significant amount of time.

His head hurt. All the cuts and bruises he had sustained demanded attention. Hunger gnawed at him, though his stomach felt like it wouldn't hold a thing. He mentally made a list of what he should do: shower, attend to wounds, drink, eat, go to bed. Sounded simple, and yet he couldn't get off the floor.

A knock came at the door. Really, more of a banging. ''Ned?'' Chuck's voice sounded panicked on the other side. ''Please tell me you are in there.''

''I am.'' Ned's voice sounded weak and cracked. A drink would be wonderful.

''Are you okay?''

 _Good question._ ''Yeah. I just need—'' What? What did he need? To go back in time to when he thought it would be a good idea to prepare fruit the night before so he could save time and spend longer with Chuck? ''To be alone,'' he finally finished.

No reply, but he heard Chuck as she slid against the door, sitting on the other side. Just as well. It wasn't as if they could touch anyway.

Time ticked by. Both parties sitting in silence. And hour. Then 2. ''I'm going to go to Olive's to get changed,'' Chuck whispered. Ned listened to her retreating footsteps as she went to do so.

Ned still felt like not wanting to get off the floor. But with Chuck out of the apartment, he could get done without having to face her. He managed to pull himself up and gather clothes before getting in the shower.

Ned had his showering routine down to a science. He could get done in three minutes, easy. But tonight, distracted as he was, he didn't realize he was in the shower until he noticed all the suds collecting around his feet. His internal clock suggested it has been over fifteen minutes. This just added to his distress.

After rinsing and putting on clean clothes, Ned studied himself in the mirror. Simply being clean made him feel marginally better, but the mirror said he looked like crap. The cuts on him he had bandaged as best he could— the ones on his face would have to stay exposed. He hadn't eaten in only a day, but raising the dead without actually touching them was hard, hence why he didn't do it. Plus summoning ghosts. His complexion was pale and he was terribly shaky.

He managed to stumble to the kitchen. He sipped a glass of water. The idea of food was not appealing, though needed desperately. He pushed the need aside, deciding sleep was better at this moment.

He entered the bedroom. Chuck was seemingly asleep on her side. Ned went over to his side, his body grateful for a soft surface. A few minutes ticked by. ''Are you okay?''

Chuck wasn't asleep. Ned wasn't sure how to answer, so he didn't. Which, he supposed, was an answer in itself. Than Chuck posed another question. ''May I touch you?''

The plastic sheet separating them had a sleeve so that either party could use to touch the other. But sometimes Ned had no desire to be touched, so Chuck had taken to asking. But this was one of those times. ''No.''

Silence enveloped them, which Ned was grateful for. As he closed his eyes, he promised himself that tomorrow he would be better. He felt cruel, not answering Chuck and shutting her out. Tomorrow he'd get up and carry on as normal. Yes. That is what he'd do.

 **Me: Did you like it? Did you hate it? Are you going to sue me for the ten minutes you wasted reading this garbage? Leave a review and tell me please!**

 **Happy Writing!**


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